


my galaxy

by orphan_account



Category: danganronpa v3 - Fandom
Genre: ...maki is not a good person, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Virtual Reality, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bathing/Washing, Beating, Contest Entry, Gentle Kissing, Guilt, Harassment, Healthy Relationships, Implied Relationships, Kissing, M/M, Massage, Neck Kissing, Post-Canon, Post-Game(s), Prompt Fic, Self-Hatred, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24351574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “What was it like, after the suicide of Shuui-”The picture blinks out of existence as he jams his thumb onto the off button with a little more force than necessary, bottom lip caught in between two sets of nervous teeth. Ouma’s fingers tremble, waver- and his pair of mismatched eyes stares at the blank television screen, boring into the black and reflective cover.A pair of mismatched eyes stare back, and a door unlocks from behind him.
Relationships: Momota Kaito/Oma Kokichi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 120





	my galaxy

**Author's Note:**

> a couple notes on what is included/referenced in this oneshot- this is really dark and i apologize if it's way too intense for the contest dndndnbvs
> 
> *Saihara committed suicide about two months after the V3 cast was released from TDR's hospital and transferred to a nearby (unnamed) highschool and it's dorms.  
> *Momota and Ouma dyed their hair (Momota's is brown, Ouma's is black) after being released from TDR's hospital because their "natural" colours reminded them too much of the game.  
> *Harukawa is far from a good person- granted she really wasn't a good person in-game and in her in-game backstory, but it's worse now.  
> *V3's cast lives in the dorms of an unnamed highschool that they attend through online classes for the sake of, well, not being harassed for their season of DR being a failure.  
> *Ouma's eyes are mismatched, one purple (like in-game) and the other yellow.  
> *Neither of them talk to most of the V3 cast anymore- save for Akamatsu and Amami.  
> *Ouma and Akamatsu grew up in the same orphanage before the game.

“You really have to be more careful.” Is what Momota says, disgruntled brown hair looped through an electrifyingly purple rubber band and sun-kissed fingers twitching against the cellophane of the rubbing alcohol.

He doesn’t ask how Ouma’s face, splotched with blossoming violets and vermillions, has become so  _ messed up _ \- littered with saffron-tinged plaster and bandaids. Each flowering bruise sticks out like a sore thumb against the paper-white skin of his cheeks, red-rimmed knees jostled against the kitchen counter. 

Momota’s hands, rough and calloused- dance over his scraped skin with a cotton ball drenched in rubbing alcohol. Moving quickly, nimble and defined as they pick out every last trace of dirt and grime from his bleeding knees. Ouma winces against the sting of each purified wound, suffused with a fervor that’s so unfamiliar.

Mismatched eyes, glimmering violet and yellow in the pale light seeping through rain clouds, glint with an awfully familiar boldness as his head cocks to the side. Hair dyed black spills onto his shoulder- no longer held up by whatever weird gel Team Danganronpa used to maintain his appearance -and curls underneath his chin uncomfortably. “No promises.” He breathes, reaching up a hand to lean his face onto.

“Don’t do that. No.” Momota pushes his hand back against the cold kitchen counter, white marble dulled in the almost lightless room. Ouma scoffs and rolls his eyes as the former “astronaut” moves the cotton swab to his knuckles- bruises blossoming on each delicate joint. “You really have to stop getting hurt like this.” He scoffs again, voice barely above a whisper the next time he speaks.

Narrowed and angry, Ouma’s eyes drift to the clock and it’s monotonous tick at each wave of the pendulum. “It’s not my fault your  _ beloved _ ,” Voice annoyed and irritated. Momota flares. “ _ Harumaki-chan _ ,” Momota’s shoulders tense and each dance of the cotton swab against his skin becomes rougher. “Decided to revert back to old ways.”

Referring to the game always raises tension, dense and thick to the point where Ouma could probably crush it between his hands as easily as the press did with his own body. But Momota doesn’t bite, ligaments settling after a minute or two of strained silence. Lips contorted into a grimace, Momota moves to cup his cheek. It’s soft and inviting and warm, all of the things the former “astronaut” definitely should not be with him.

But against his will, Ouma slumps into the threading of sun-kissed fingers through his frazzled black hair. The cotton swab is drowned even further into the frigid antiseptic, reverting back to soft, fleeting touches and the dance of Momota’s fingertips as each touch oozing with unsaid fervor lingers against his cheek. 

Mauve eyes glisten into his imperfect mismatched pair, soft and so unlike the hero everyone once knew. “It’s… It’s fine. We- we just have to try and not slip back into old habits. Ones from the… The game, and before then.” His hesitant words sound like a less optimistic speech, given so often during the game. Ouma smiles, turbulent and strained against a pale complexion that reminds everyone of a ghost.

“Haha,” He laughs, as Momota carefully covers the blemishes on his face and knees with fresh, lily-white plaster. “I stopped trying a long time ago.” Is what he breathes, instead of the warm, tickling need to whisper a faint indication of unsaid fervor. Momota’s lips only twist into a frown, before their fleeting touch is against the blemished and blistering skin of his knuckles.

Ouma’s breaths contort, hitched and stuck against his throat. His heart sputters against his ribcage, almost welcome in between all of the chaos and sodden spirits. It’s not long before Momota’s lips connect with his neck, and then his collar bone, and then his jawline. He scoffs, pushing his own disgruntled hair out of the way, before tilting Momota’s chin up with the gentle touch of his bony fingers.

Ouma closes the distance.

* * *

The television blares, most likely audible through the thin papyrus walls of the shitty dorms Team Danganronpa released them to.

With each press of a button, Ouma surfs through channels upon channels upon channels. Sometimes he lands on a rerun of Danganronpa V3, repugnant flashes of sickly bright pink blood plastered on floorboards and ceramic and concrete and at one point the cold surface of a hydraulic press. A scowl twists his lips downwards, in the painful silence that reminds him that Momota is out to get groceries because Harukawa or some other person would be waiting to pick on him once more.

A bony, frail finger- paper-white in color, reaches down to trace the fresh plaster on his knees, before pressing the button to switch the channels again. Each video playing on the television flickers by, his mind wandering up until he pauses for a moment too long- and he hears Akamatsu’s voice blaring on the television speakers.

Gentle, soft and melodic- that’s the way her voice has always been, and the sugar that keeps those bright magenta eyes of her’s open and happy and optimistic is something he’ll begrudgingly admire. Iruma’s situated next to her, face coiled into discomfort and fake optimism that looks nothing like how he remembers her.

Ouma tries not to think of her dying body, writhing in the grip of the strangely sturdy toilet paper as Gokuhara strangles her and then she’s on the ground, cold and still and fallen snow is compiling on her long, silky hair. He tries not to think of Gokuhara’s sobbing at the end of the fourth trial- so upset and distraught that he’s happy to go, because he murdered and murder is wrong and disgusting and cruel, and yet Ouma manipulated him into it anyway.

He inhales sharply, heart stuttering painfully against his chest. It’s so unfamiliar now, with Momota around- so gentle and kind and caring that he can’t help but feel as though he doesn’t deserve it. Because he really doesn’t- he caused Iruma and Gokuhara and his deaths, and it’s so aggravating to remember the former two’s corpses, and how he’d wished they could lie under headstones instead of being whisked off into nowhere.

And suddenly it melts, when the interviewer’s voice reverberates through the speakers. It’s so full of fake adoration, processed and honeyed in order to butter up the two girls on screen at that very moment. Ouma watches their faces contort into grief and anger and so many mixed emotions. He hates it. He hates it he hates it he hates it.

“What was it like, after the suicide of Shuui-”

The picture blinks out of existence as he jams his thumb onto the off button with a little more force than necessary, bottom lip caught in between two sets of nervous teeth. Ouma’s fingers tremble, waver- and his pair of mismatched eyes stares at the blank television screen, boring into the black and reflective cover.

A pair of mismatched eyes stare back, and a door unlocks from behind him.

* * *

Ouma sighs, sinking into the lukewarm water of the tub.

Momota slips in behind him, adjusting his position to where his head is on his bare chest- slick black hair plastered against the surface. Steam emerges from the confines of the ceramic tub, coating the mirror in a translucent sheet of white. Ouma closes his eyes, resisting the urge to scratch at his wounds- plaster and bandages stripped clean for the sake of washing the irritated skin.

Calm and quiet, with the sound of rain beating at the thatch roof, they lie in the pool of water for a moment’s rest. Some time later, when the water’s no longer warm and comforting but slightly chilled, Momota lifts his head up, and his fingers dance along Ouma’s slouched spine, lingering over every bruise and scar for just a little longer than needed before tracing each divot in his shoulder blades.

It turns into a gentle massage, even more fleeting when sun-kissed hands drag over the blemishes coating his rib cage and spine, evening out his tensed ligaments after so long of being bunched up. Ouma hums, low sound reverberating past lips a bit too pale to be healthy. Momota whistles back, voice scratched and rough but gentle all the same.

“Are you doing okay?” Momota murmurs, a bit too fast- like he was almost out of breath. Ouma knows it’s because Momota knows he hates talking about feelings, about the game, about what he did. It’s the same way with his lover, acting like he doesn’t go out on the veranda at ungodly hours in the morning, dissociating underneath the stars.

Acting like sometimes Ouma doesn’t join him, their hands- so different in size and texture -intertwined together and brushed up against the dewy leaves of one of their many house plants. Ouma thinks of his assigned dorm room- bare and empty besides the furniture provided because the threat of Harukawa was too stressful for him to sleep.

Instead of saying anything remotely feeling-related, Ouma snorts, his voice coming out just as airy. “What spurred that question?” He gets silence in response, drawn out and long and so unbelievably uncertain. Because now that the game’s over, Momota is so hard to read- not that he minds, he needed to learn how to do that eventually.

“Just… I heard the television earlier today.” Ouma stiffens again under the touch of those sun-kissed hands, that freeze just as much upon the still form on his abnormally thin body. He sighs, the tickling of mauve eyes against his skin earning an uncertain glance from Ouma behind his back.

He turns to face Momota, thin arms slipping around the taller male’s waist. Ouma sighs again, focused on the tanned skin of his lover with only slightly muffled intent. “That…” He curses his voice for wavering, and tries again. “That was,” Ouma pauses and swallows, a momentary dip in his speech. “That was a mistake.”

It’s electrifying, how shivers climb up his spine. How he doesn’t notice his breathing picking up, ragged and torn like the arrow holes in his supreme leader uniform. Momota draws circles on his spine, so light that it almost tickles, and Ouma swallows dryly. “I- I didn’t mean,” He stumbles over his words. “I di-didn’t mean to end up on that channel. It just…” Again, he pauses. “It just happened. I-it was an accident, I’m sorry-”

And again, it’s electrifying and intoxicating, when Momota tilts his chin up like he did hours upon hours ago, and closes the gap in between their lips. Ouma reciprocates, the giddy flutter of his heart against his chest eliciting heat that splatters across his cheeks- too pale for it to even be remotely faint. “Hey,” Momota murmurs, breaking the kiss apart and combing his hair through Ouma’s hair. “Hey. It’s alright, I get it.”

They’re quiet for a moment, before Momota whistles out a stuttered breath. “It- it definitely doesn’t make it easier, that they’re still talking about it after three months.” Ouma hums, burrowing his face into the divot between Momota’s neck and collarbone. It’s silent again, save for the gentle thrum of rain that cuts into the shutter of those dirtied vents. The bath water sloshes around a little bit, before he speaks up again.

“It’s… TDR and their nonsense. Akamatsu-chan told me they’re getting hit pretty hard with the failure of our… our season,” Ouma pauses for a moment, unsure if he should continue. Momota hums, drumming a gentle rhythm against his unbruised collar bone. “Apparently, there’s some sort of, uh, organization? That’s against the whole… ‘traumatizing teenagers for the purpose of entertainment’, thing.”

Momota snorts. “They fucking should be.”

Ouma laughs in response, before continuing. “Yeah, so this organization or whatever is grilling TDR pretty hard. I think Akamatsu and Amami are working with them to create a lawsuit against them. I think eventually we’ve all gotta go in for, uh…” He swallows. Momota ruffles his hair a little, eliciting another laugh to slip past his lips.

“Eventually we all have to go in for testimony and such… And apparently it’s everyone, so like- Harukawa... and Iruma, and Gokuhara.” Ouma’s breathing shudders again, before Momota tilts his chin up again. Mismatched eyes meet mauve ones, perfect and soft and loving- filled with fervor, the kind he loves and always will. 

Momota kisses him again, soft and chaste, before doing the same to his forehead. “Well, wherever you go, or whatever you decide to do, I’ll be there right beside you, okay?”

Ouma smiles. “You fucking better be.”

* * *

It’s almost three in the morning when he wakes up, tangled in between galaxy print blankets that the highschool themselves forced upon them.

Ouma grumbles something, kicking the mocking indigo comforters off of his abnormally skinny frame. Recently rebandaged, his hand rests against the rough hickory of the nightstand beside him. It’s unnervingly quiet- not even the pitter of rain heard, at least until one of his paper-white feet land on a particularly noisy wooden floorboard.

Leaving the corners of the room to rot, his chalk colored feet skim the frigid wooden floors of the decently large bedroom. There’s nobody out on the veranda- his ability to see the sparkling indigo sky never hindered by a tall figure blocking the way. Ouma hums to himself, bruised knuckles brushing against the rusted false-silver of the doorknob.

Clicking his teeth, Ouma pushes it open. The hinges squeal, reminding him of the meeting awaiting later today. It feels so close, but so far away- like one of the lightning bugs he and Akamatsu could never catch when they were kids, jars always empty after hours of hunting. He almost smiles at the memory, before shaking his head, and trudging through the hallway.

Spiderwebs stare at him from every corner, buried underneath floorboards and the cracked and blemished ceiling of TDR’s shitty excuse for a dorm. Ouma’s feet give out muted thuds and whines against the shudder of each floorboard, creaking under the little pressure his frail body gives.

Peeking around the corner, into the kitchen, he gets a glimpse of Momota- trying his hardest to do something with the oven. Ouma laughs, before calling out to him. “Momo~chaan!” Is what he settles with, voice light and airy but scratched and rough all the same. Momota jumps with a small yelp, managing to hit his head on one of the pans dangling from the ceiling in the process.

It takes him a moment to realize he’s laughing, reverberation bubbling past chapped lips. Momota’s eyes sparkle when he realizes it’s Ouma, giddy smile etched onto his lips so perfectly and gently that it makes Ouma’s heart throb. “Kichi! Come over here, look!” He scrambles over, because how can he not, and makes his way over to Momota’s side.

In his fit of elation, Momota pulls a tray out of the oven a little too quickly. What appears to be blob-shaped cookies fly off of the pan, his lover barely catching them before they hit the ground. He’s laughing again, and he’s realized that this is one of the few times he’s laughed and smiled so genuinely and freely after the events of the game- when his smile felt contorted and unnatural against his own face.

Momota passes him one of the cookies, and Ouma recognizes the shape of a ghost. When he meets Momota’s gaze, brows furrowed in confusion, his lover’s smile grows. “I thought I could make something! Cause’ you said that TDR was getting fucked over, maybe we could celebrate a little bit?” He tilts his head in that cute, puppy-like way, and Ouma grins back at him. “Oh, uh, they're probably a bit burned, just saying.”

Ouma waves him off, opting to gaze at the small ghost cookie. It’s icing looks like a poorly painted galaxy, little white sprinkles supposedly representing stars. After a moment, Ouma chortles, holding the cookie up. “Aren’t you afraid of ghosts?” He inquires, a light, teasing tone adding a higher pitch to it.

Momota flushes, heat plastering itself across perfectly smooth cheeks, not riddled with the aftermath of rough punches that sprout bruises against those sun-kissed lips. “Well- You sorta remind me of one!” Ouma’s laughing again, raising both of his arms above his head and mimicking those impossibly contorted expressions he used to make.

“So you’re scared of me? I should have you know, Momo~chan, that I can possess you at any time!” Momota yelps, sputtering uselessly against Ouma’s approaching form. It takes him all but two seconds to hop up and peck him on the lips, and snatch Momota’s cookie- darting off into the darkness of the rotting dorm.

They run around like this, Ouma slowly eating both cookies over the course of their little game of tag. And once they;re done- and he’s eaten half of Momota’s cookie, they lay against each other on the couch- raggedy and worn down yet comfortable all the same. “You’re the worst.” Momota snorts to his tired form, combing through each tangle in his black hair.

And when he closes his eyes, Ouma thinks that Momota’s never shined like the galaxy more, underneath the pale light of the kitchen just beside the living room.

He’s never been happier, to have his own little galaxy right beside him along their journey to break the chains of trauma that weigh against them.


End file.
